The Diary
by rynthae
Summary: Harry finds himself in the possession of Tom Riddle's diary once again, and is horrified to find that Tom's memory still lives inside of it. And he can't help but feel drawn to the mystery of the other teen.  Harry Potter  x  Tom Riddle
1. Prologue

It was Ron's idea to keep the diary. The Chamber of Secrets had been closed, and the dining hall was cleaning itself up after the massive feast that had ensued. Heading back from McGonagall's office, Harry's foot nudged something on the ground as he chatted happily with his two best friends, Hermione and Ron. Something small, and black. A hole had punctured all of the way through, and the offending weapon, a basilisk's fang, lay off to the side, where it had fallen.

For all the faith that Lucian Malfoy had put into the small book, after having failed him he had tossed it aside as useless trash, and once again, Harry found it in his possession.

"Harry!" Hermione warned. "We _know_ that is dangerous! Let's just take it to Dumbledore. He can destroy it, for good. Just in case."

"Just in case?" Ron asked, incredulous. "After getting bitten by a basilisk, I think it's as dead as it can get!" Turning to Harry with a mischievous smile, he suggested, "I'd keep it. I mean, it's like a trophy, right? It practically screams 'I'm more badass than the Dark Lord!'"

Harry sighed. "I don't think I need that kind of a trophy, Ron. Thanks."

"Aw, come on…."

"Harry's right, Ron." Hermione intoned. "We don't need that thing lying around. It's full of bad memories, and bound to be a bad influence…. We should just take it to Dumbledore."

Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from the book, though, despite Hermione's reassurances. He could practically see Tom's wry smile through its cover. That infuriating, stomach-wrenching smile that was so belyingly beautiful, and so fundamentally twisted. "I never said I wanted to do that," he told her grimly. "I want to destroy it myself."

Frowning in concern, Hermione interjected, "Harry, I'm not sure that's such a good idea…"

"Are you sure it can even be destroyed?" Ron asked, staring at it with one eyebrow lifted. "I mean, it belonged to You-Know-Who…."

"This is something I need to do," was Harry's only reply.

For the rest of the walk back to the Gryffindor common room, Harry more or less ignored anymore comments on the Diary, instead changing the subject to the possibility of visiting Ron over the summer break.

Nothing worked. Harry tried burning it, burying it, cutting the pages out, throwing it in the lake, and everything else he could think of. Flames licked around the book to no effect. After spending all night burying it near the Forbidden Forest, wrapped up in his father's invisibility cloak, and collapsing exhaustedly into bed nearly at dawn, Harry was dismayed to find the book under his pillow the next morning, untouched by dirt. The same thing happened when he tried to throw it into the lake.

Similarly, the pages were impervious to knives, and as hard as he tried to tear out the paper, it showed no effect. The only sign of damage was the small puncture-mark from the basilisk fang.

It had been a week. A week of trying everything, and failing over and over again. The diary would not be destroyed, and would not leave Harry. It kept coming back, as if taunting him.

Was Ron wrong? Was the diary still alive / if that's what you could call it / after the basilisk?

Worse, Harry couldn't stop dreaming, and in every dream, Tom was there with that infuriating smile, taunting him with that friendly expression in the face of Harry's anger and pain. Dark circles developed under his eyes as he missed sleep, and people started asking him if he felt all right.

"I'm fine," he snapped irritably, each time, strung thin.

The moon was setting, although dawn was still awhile yet to come. The dorm was silent, everyone asleep. Only one pair of green eyes shone in the darkness, coming to rest on the mutinous diary. Glancing over to Ron, making sure that he was asleep, he grabbed the diary, opening it up. The page was marred, punctured through in the middle as if a large pencil had been pushed through the book. Blank parchment stared back at him, daring him.

Hand shaking, he reached for his quill. He had to know.

_Tom?_ He wrote.

_Hello, Harry. It's been awhile._


	2. Chapter One

Harry's stomach churned in horror as the familiar handwriting appeared over the page in response to his own. He tried to throw the diary away from him, but his fingers wouldn't move. Tears welling up, shaking in anger, his own writing scrawled messily over the page, fury evident in the shaky and harsh letters.

_Why aren't you dead? What will it take?_

There was a small hesitation, and when Tom began writing, he didn't answer Harry's question. _I didn't think I'd hear from you again. Couldn't stay away, Harry?_

Tears dripped onto the page, and Harry cursed, trying to tear the page, hands shaking with anger. _I hate you! Why can't you just die? You killed my parents, and no matter what happens, you keep coming back from the grave to haunt me!_

_I didn't kill your parents, Harry._

_Of course you did!_

_In the future, maybe._ There was a slight pause. _I'm only sixteen, remember? A fragment. I'm not the one who did that to you._

_It doesn't matter - you will, or you did, or whatever!_

_So why did you keep my diary, Harry?_

Harry drew in a breath, trying to calm himself. He couldn't afford to get sucked into this. _How do I destroy this diary?_

_The funny thing, Harry, is that I think, even if you won't admit it, you're just as drawn to me as I am to you._

_GODDAMNIT, JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!_

_You'll be back._

Harry slammed the book shut, instantly regretting it as Ron mumbled something about spiders and rolled over in his sleep. Being more careful to be quiet, he stuffed the diary under his pillow. No matter what he did, it seemed to end up there, anyway.

After awhile, Harry gave up trying to destroy the diary. He had tried everything he could think of, and nothing worked. Every time, he woke up with it under his pillow, after another dream of Tom. The dreams started out fuzzy and vague, but the more time passed, the clearer the dreams became. In some of them, he and Tom went to school together. They were sworn enemies, classmates, or best friends. In others, Tom and Harry faced off somewhere he didn't recognize, wands out, an ominous green light clinging to Tom's wand. Sometimes, Harry felt disconnected, like he was just a viewer, as he saw a younger Tom sobbing silently and shaking with cold, curled up on a hard mattress with just one threadbare blanket to stave off the frost that had crept into the Muggle orphanage. He watched Tom's closest friend die from pneumonia, watched the too-skinny boy steal a piece of bread, and get whipped to the point that his skin ripped open like an overripe fruit because of it. He watched the lecherous ways that the keeper of the orphanage looked upon Tom, and the way his hand strayed when he tucked in the small, black-haired boy. He watched Tom cry over, and over, and over, watched the light in his eyes dissolve into despair and hopelessness.

And then, the letter came. The boy's eyes lit up, and he shook, unable to believe that this was a possibility. He'd be able to escape this place, for good. All he had to do was go.

And he did.

It didn't stop there, either. Harry watched as Tom poured into his studies in a way that he had only ever seen Hermione do. Tom mastered spell after spell, and potion after potion. He was a dream student, building a future away from that orphanage one spell at a time.

Even if he could escape that place by learning magic, though… some of the scars he'd received there would never leave him. It was wrong. It was still wrong. But Harry began to understand the haunted and hateful, distrusting glances that Tom gave the wizards of Muggle decent. In each one, Tom saw that keeper, felt starvation and cold and humiliation all over again. He couldn't take it. The rest of the school saw him distort into something cruel and cold, unemotional. Harry saw him curled up in a ball at night, crying, every night, the same way he had when he was younger. Destroying that which feared him. He watched Tom breaking down, filled with self-hate that he would never show, for all his pride, to anyone. He watched as Tom gave in to the monster that he thought he'd become. _It's too late, anyway, _Tom's red-rimmed eyes said as they implored Harry's green ones. _I'm a monster. I can never redeem myself, anyway. I have nothing to lose._

It was wrong. It would never be okay.

_Why did you do it?_ Harry wrote. He was at the Dursley's, and with nothing better to do, had ended up turning to the diary again.

_You know why. You saw._

_Don't you regret it? Innocent people died because of you._

_Of course I regret it, Harry. But it's too late for regrets, apologies, and redemption. You of all people have shown me that. All there is left to me is to go forward. Well, as much as I can. Considering my situation, I'd say there's not much left to me. At least I have someone to talk to._

_You don't deserve it._ Harry stared at the accusation of a sentence, and it seemed harsher than it should. He had to conscientiously remind himselfthat this was Voldemort, the killer of so many innocents. Even this accusation was gentler than he deserved.

_Still, thanks. Time passes awfully slowly when you're alone._

Harry wasn't sure what was wrong with him, but with all of these dreams of Tom pouring through his head every night, and their strange written conversations, he wasn't sure how he felt anymore. He hated Voldemort. He hated that twisted creature that Tom would one day become. The husk of a person that had killed his parents, and so many others. But Tom seemed so removed from that person…. Harry had a hard time seeing the attractive, dark-haired boy with such dedication and brilliance as the same Dark Lord he had thought he knew.

School had started up again, and after exchanging stories and shoveling their way through the feast, Hermione asked Harry: "Any success?"

"Success?" Harry gave her a confused look, unsure what they were actually talking about.

"You know," Ron told him, picking up on the conversation. "The diary. Have you destroyed it?"

"Er…."

Not to be discouraged, Ron asked, "did you blow it up? Throw it in a cauldron of acid?"

"Ron, I'm not sure that…" Hermione started, frowning.

"Aha! I got it! Let me guess - you snuck it into your dreadful aunt's pudding, and Dudley ate it! Fantastic!"

"Well actually…."

Ron's grin faltered, and Hermione's expression darkened as Harry shifted uneasily under their attention.

"You didn't do it." Hermione stated.

"I couldn't. I tried everything," Harry explained, sighing. "It's not a big deal, anyway. I think it doesn't work anymore," he lied, feeling guilty even as he did so.

"You could hand it off to Fred and George," Ron suggested thoughtfully. "They're great at breaking things."

"Harry, even if it doesn't work… I still think you should take it to Dumbledore," Hermione said, clearly worried. "It's not a burden that you should have to carry."

"I'll think about it, I guess." Harry glanced away, worried about what the two might think if they knew he'd been dreaming about Tom's life, or talking to him through the diary.

Despite his attempts to keep his hatred towards Tom smoldering, Harry couldn't help but keep talking to him. Their conversations grew less threatening and painful, and more inquisitive, as time passed. Harry asked about his parents, wanting to know what they were like, forgetting temporarily that Tom had ended up becoming the very person who had killed them. He stopped being able to connect the teen with his future crimes, and started confiding small things to him. He told Tom about how awful it was at the Dursley's, and about Snape's eternal hatred of him.

One day, unthinkingly, he asked Ron and Hermione: "Do you think that a person can change?"

"Of course, Harry. Why do you ask?" Hermione responded.

"Well, yeah, unless you're Malfoy. I'm pretty sure nothing could change his awfulness," Ron added.

"I guess it's more than that," Harry admitted. "Say someone did terrible things because they had a terrible past. Out of fear, and hurt. If they were able to overcome that… if they could talk to someone about that, do you think they could change?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Maybe." She searched Harry's eyes, sensing the secret that he was very carefully keeping. "Why do you ask? Do you know someone like that?"

Harry glanced down at the floor a bit uneasily. "Er… I was just wondering."

Neither Ron nor Hermione were convinced.

_If you could do things differently, would you?_ Harry wrote.

_You know that I would, Harry. This is the end of me, though. This book is all that's left of the Tom you know._

Harry's dreams shifted from Tom's history and thoughts, gradually. They had run out, and all that was left was the memory of Tom, imprisoned in the diary. He dreamed of sitting across from Tom in the common room, talking to him in person, instead of on paper.

"I should hate you," Harry said quietly. He might've been able to disguise his shaking, or the way he hung his head, if he had been writing. But Tom's eyes watched Harry carefully, more than aware of his emotional struggle.

Tom gave a small smile that was both beautiful and sad, all at once. "I suppose that means you don't, or can't, doesn't it? Even if I deserve it."

Harry sighed, risking a glance towards the other dark=haired boy. "I just can't picture you as being, er… evil. You're messed up, Tom. All twisted up and hurt inside. But not…. Not evil." _Not yet, _he thought, wondering almost simultaneously whether it was too late to divert that course, at least for the Tom he knew.

"Thank you," Tom replied, tone somewhat sarcastic, to lighten the mood. He paused, eyes passing over Harry as if he were inspecting him.

"What's it like… being stuck in the diary?" Harry asked, a bit uneasily.

Tom sighed, shrugging. "Lonely, I suppose. But… now I have you, don't I? It's not so bad, in that case."

Harry couldn't help it as his cheeks reddened at the way Tom familiarly claimed to practically own Harry. It was as though Harry was some sort of pet for the troubled teen. "Yeah… sure."

"You write me every night. It's nice. And I get to see you in your dreams…." A small, wry smile pulled at Tom's lips. Harry looked away, trying not to meet his gaze. "Shouldn't you be more interested in some or other girl by now, instead of visiting with a memory of monstrosity. That Hermione girl is more than meets the eyes, and Ginny hangs off of your every word." He scooted closer to Harry, who shifted uncomfortably. With a secretive smile, Tom leaned closer, and asked him, "What about me is more interesting than either of them?"

Harry glowed red, clearly embarrassed. "What? That's not - I mean, I just,"

"Maybe," Tom said, leaning dangerously closer, "they just don't understand you the way I do, hm?"

"Er…" Harry leaned back, away from Tom's face and taunting grin, but it was shortlived, stopped by the back of the chair he was sitting in. He could have sworn that Tom's grin widened as he put his hands up feebly to ward off the older boy, and Tom's arm slid around Harry's slender waist as he stole a kiss. Harry's muffled protests went generally ignored as Tom held him close, his lips soft and persuasive upon the younger boy's.

_This is wrong, this is so wrong! I can't, I - _Harry's thoughts chased each other around in his head. Even as he knew he should loathe Tom, even as his mind reeled with the wrongness of the situation, Tom's arms around him and his lips against his was too much. He gave in to the kiss, to the warm and unexpected sensation of Tom's tongue sliding into his own mouth as he gave a surprised, muffled sound. It was so wrong, and Harry lamented the fact that, despite everything he knew, it felt so right.


	3. Chapter Two

He couldn't help it. Harry wrote in the diary every night, telling Tom about his day, and dreamt every night about the other dark-haired teen. He dreamt about talking to Tom, about lying in the older boy's lap as Tom ran his fingers through Harry's hair and inquisitively over his trademark scar, commenting about Hermione's strange schedule, or the feud between Scabbers and Crookshanks. He dreamt of stealing kisses, and curling up close to Tom, feelings of safety and contentedness battling with feelings of guilt and self-doubt as he reminded himself that the boy whose lips he found so irresistible, and whose arms he longed to have wrapped around him was the murderer of his parents.

Tom, patient as ever, stayed by Harry's side when it became too much, and the younger boy broke down into tears, hating himself for what he took to be a betrayal to everyone he knew. Silent, knowing that his words could only hurt Harry more in a time like this, Tom simply held him close, comforting the pain that his very existence had caused.

Harry stopped noticing Hermione and Ron's exchanged looks of worry as they noticed the stress eating away at him and carving dark circles under his eyes. He'd gotten to the point where he didn't even care when they whispered in hushed, urgent tones, wondering what was wrong with him ("Is it the Grimm, you think?" "Oh, come on, he knows there's no solidity to her predictions! More of a drama-queen than a diviner, if you ask me... Not that the art itself is at all reliable, either.").

The concern of his two friends dwindled over time, however. They chalked it up to the everyday stress of being Harry Potter, with all of the crazy predictions of death, dementors lurking everywhere... and then the Tri-Wizard tournament and all of the darkness that followed it.

"I wish there was a way that everything could be changed..." Harry lamented, curled up close to Tom in the dreamworld commonroom.

"I know," Tom said softly, eyes downcast as he held Harry close. He admired Harry curiously; Harry wasn't nearly as young as he had been when he'd first picked up the Diary on that fateful day.

"In the future - in my time, you're evil and inhuman... terrifying and revolting."

Tom made a bit of a face, but still Harry continued.

"I wish you could have just stayed... well, you. I wish you lived in my time. Not him."

Tom seemed to consider this statement, fingers playing through Harry's dark, unruly hair as he thought. "If there was a way to do that... if it were possible, would you do it?"

Harry cast a dark look at him, suddenly alert. "You had better not be messing with me, Tom. Is there a way?" His stomach gave a small twist of guilt; this was more than just fraternizing and talking. Could he really let everyone down - no, betray everyone? - and help the Dark Lord? Looking at Tom, though, the teen hardly looked like the Dark Lord. He looked more like a boy with too many dark things haunting his mind, and not enough people to trust to save him from them.

Tom returned Harry's gaze evenly, searching his eyes, frowning faintly at the guilt that he could see eating away inside of them. "There is. It won't be easy, though. I wouldn't blame you if you'd prefer to keep this dream, and only that."

Harry couldn't keep the revulsion out of his words as he asked, "Let me guess, I have to kill someone? No - several people? What, is it a spell that requires the last breath of sixty wizards and thirty muggles?" Glaring at Tom, his expression virtually dared the teen to prove him right, and show him that he'd been wrong all these years to open his heart to Tom.

Tom stared at Harry, aghast. "And you think I'm twisted?" He shook his head slowly, not sure whether to laugh or express horror at Harry's perception of what was needed. "No, no. You don't need to kill or hurt anyone, Harry. I wouldn't ask that of you. I'm afraid that it might be dangerous to you, though. It will be a tedious, and possibly risky. That's why I warned you that it wouldn't be easy."

Looking somewhat surprised, Harry looked up at him, a bit suspiciously at first, as if not sure he could believe that helping Tom didn't involve mutilating innocents. That small spark of hope and trust that had grown inside of him without his knowledge slowly emerged in his expression. "What, then...? How...?"

Tom spoke softly. "You would have to gather the broken pieces of me, my horcruxes... if you were to face the version of me that you know now, with all of those pieces together, he would be absorbed into them. And I could come out, instead." He reached out to Harry, fingers brushing over the other boy's cheek as he leaned in, stealing a sweet kiss. "It's dangerous, though, Harry. I think it'd be better if you didn't. You'll always have me in your dreams..."

Harry shook his head, pulling back slightly and fixing Tom with a determined, emerald gaze. Only blushing a little, he slid his hand into Tom's, their fingers intertwining as he told the older teen: "I'll do it."


End file.
